


Change of Season

by sarahlorien



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And sheep shearing, Ashton's a bull rider, F/M, Romance, She's from the city (mostly), There's a wedding!, outback Australia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5672392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahlorien/pseuds/sarahlorien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s something different about this place, yet the same. The sun rises and sets but all the while there’s so much going on. Sheep bleating, kettles boiling and lives are lived. She’s both afraid and intrigued by what they do out here. There’s vulnerability in being close; being so comfortable with herself—and with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Never

**_1_ ** _Austral. the unpopulated desert country of the interior of Australia; the remote outback._

**_2_ ** _(_ **_Never-Never Land (or Country)_ ** _) a region of Northern Territory, Australia, south-east of Darwin; chief town, Katherine._

###

One of her most vivid memories was the plane touching down on the red dust runway as she sighed a breath of relief. 

Two weeks. Two weeks and it would all be over.

From horizon to horizon the dirt and dust stretched, red and brown and flat. The morning sun low overhead seemed as reluctant as she felt, as it slowly approached morning with the sky already as blue as blue could be and not a cloud in sight.

A wedding. Her cousin’s to be precise. She was being dragged half way across the country for a wedding. She hadn’t even known her cousin was engaged, let alone getting married in a week.

She was the only passenger on board the light aircraft, the pilot her only company for the past two hours. 

No, dragged sounded too degrading. She was going home after all. To the middle of nowhere. But home... home was special.

Home was seeing the land she had once been familiar with; but that was nothing compared to seeing a familiar face at the end of the runway. The cattle dog she’d grown up with, still kicking around in the dust was the first to greet her. She rubbed him behind the ears, not forgetting how much he liked that and Rusty, the dog, didn’t hesitate to jump at her. It’d been years since she’d seen him. But the most relieving moment was when she finally caught eyes with her dad, standing by the car. He looked weather-worn and tired but grinned from ear to ear when he saw her, embracing her in a bone breaking hug. “Hey Dad.” She greeted him, holding back tears as he held her and breathed out deeply.

“I’m so glad you’re back.” He said, stepping back to look at me. “I know it was a hassle to get here.”

The pilot helped load her few bags into the trunk of the car and waved them off, walking up the landing strip to the tiny air traffic control tower with his hands in his pockets as the sun cast a long shadow of him up the dust. It felt like she’d never left, or maybe the place never left her. 

Her dad kept his eyes on the road as they drove back to the homestead while she took in the surrounding land. Funnily, she remembered it exactly the way it was: dry and barren and dust filled. The roads ran between the farms so there were rarely turns down streets or avenues. It was simple and easy like that. 

“Your mum’s missed you.” He revealed about halfway home. 

_Home_. It reminded her of the small comforts and love and care. Somewhere to reside when time’s got tough; where she kept everyone she loved; she could keep them safe there.

“I’ve missed her.” She admitted, smiling softly at the recollection of her. She was always the one who tended to her cuts and bruises, tucked her in and a weary eye. “Is she at home?”

Her dad nodded. “She’s been looking forward to seeing you for months now. I can’t tell you how much she wants you at home all the time.” 

She smiled wryly, nodding as well. Of course she had reasons for not being there all the time. She didn’t live there; she didn’t even live in the same state as her parents. A small place back in Victoria belonged to her. Her job, friends, commitment was all there. Not out here. Not where the sky and horizons were the only limits. That’s what family meant; any possibilities, anything at all. And that was reassuring—that was what was comforting, that they’d never run out of room for all the love they shared with each other.

He turned off the main road, a few trees started appearing, closer than what they had before which were just edging in the corner of her peripheral vision. As they drove by she noticed that cows had already started sheltering under the few trees, trying to escape the heat of the approaching day. The road was no longer surfaced and consisted of dry dust under the car.

They had to stop for a flock of sheep in the middle of the road, two gates either side of the road had been opened allowing them across but no one was there to supervise. Her dad beeped the car horn to make them moved faster and the flock parted as they drove through. “Remind me to tell the Irwins that the gates are open on their side.” He mumbled, nodding ever so slightly towards her.

She looked over her shoulder at the sheep as they trekked through. On one side of the road, the farm was theirs. She didn’t even remember which was which.

He nudged her with his elbow then. “Take a look.” And pointed across the horizon with his free hand. Passed a few staggered, half-dead ghost gums, a brick house with a cream tin room stood up on the otherwise level terrain. The wind had picked up a bit too, kicking the dust around. Next to the house, looming twice its size, the grey shearing shed sheltered more than three dozen sheep. The car’s clock showed just after nine and already they were hustling away from the sun’s heat.

The almost sudden turn, took her by surprise as they left the road. The bumpy, long driveway (as she remembered it was a good two kilometres) lead to the ‘Waltzing Matilda Homestead’. It was just as she remembered it; almost as if nothing had changed in the five years since she’d been there.

As they neared the homestead the front door swung open and her mum came running out, still in her apron with her arms open and the biggest smile she’d ever seen on her face.

The car stopped just to the side of the house and her mum hugged her with more force than her dad. Double even. Probably triple. “Welcome home.” Her mum held on as if reclaiming her, and she held on for longer. That was home; it was what it really felt like. “How was your flight?”

She nodded and let go of her, tentatively. “It was good.”

“And did you get enough sleep?”

“Plenty.”

“Are you hungry?”

“A little bit.” She had been hanging out for her mum’s cooking since the day she left; nothing could beat that.

Her mum nodded and picked up one of the bags out of the back of the car as her and her dad took out the remaining two. “Well I was just preparing brunch now. Perfect timing.”

Her mum kicked the door open and held it for her as she stepped into the homestead from the front porch. To her immediate right the living room with the beat-up old couch which was as old as the hills and the little t.v. in the corner. Passed that, the dining room where she remembered colouring in as a child. At the end of the house, visible from the front door, the kitchen which had a smaller table in it as well.

To her left, the parlour as she remembered it: with the two cream couches, lace curtains across the front window, dark wood walls and two tallboys either side of the fireplace all centred around the coffee table. Up from that was her parents’ room, the bathroom and then her room at the end of the hallway, which, connected all the rooms in the house and ran in a straight line from front door to the back door.

“I’ll let you settle in and then we’re all having brunch.” Her mum smiled and her and her dad followed her into the room.

The first difference she noticed was that the little single bed she used to have wasn’t there anymore, it was a double with pale green bedsheets and matching pillow cases. As well as new curtains that were now white chiffon fabric. The wallpaper was still blue, but much more faded than the last time she saw it. On the far wall she now had a desk as well as a dresser. 

Her mum set the bag she’d carried in on the bed. “You get unpacked. Your dad will help me with breakfast.” He put the bag he’d brought in beside the bed and left the room. Her mum waited until he’d gone, still standing in the doorway. “It’s good that you’ve come home Sheridan.”

The girl nodded, turning shyly away from her mother, into the room. It was different. But it was still home. It was where she’d grown up, and nothing could change that. Sheridan _was_ glad to be back. But after not being there for half a decade she felt more than a little bit out of place. Everything was different and changed and not what I was used to. 

Unzipping the bags she’d brought inside, Sheridan began hanging the few dresses she’d brought back with her in the wardrobe which was on the far side of the bed. There were a couple of clean shirts already there, one white and the other a soft blue, clearly her mum’s doing.

However in the process of doing so, she almost tripped over what was sat, centred perfectly at the foot of her bed. Her boots. Brown and dusty, like they’d been taken out of the cupboard especially for the occasion. They were the one thing she hadn’t taken with her. Of course she couldn’t bare to part with them, but she had to leave something behind. It was a silly thing that meant she always had to come back; to get the left behind token; in her case, her boots.

She hadn’t brought much with her anyway. Three pairs of shoes, underwear, bathers(even the current morning weather was warmer than the city’s hottest at this time of year), jeans, tops, pyjamas, a few dresses, and something to wear to the wedding. 

It had taken some thinking about, but she’d decided to bring her bridle, hat, and blanket with her. Surely they’d come in use to her while on the farm. It was almost a necessity when she’d grown up.

Looking briskly over her half unpacked bag contents, she was interrupted by a low growl; her stomach. Well, seeing as brunch was in order, she stepped out of her room, shutting the door behind her—save her mum from the mess— and walked into the kitchen. 

Really, it was inevitable that they’d meet, but Sheridan wished she hadn’t walked in.

“Do you know Ashton Irwin?” Her mum asked, nodding to the curly-haired boy sitting at the kitchen table with his feet up. He did look familiar, but she couldn’t pinpoint his face—maybe it was just his attitude she recognised. But it was definitely the surname her dad had mentioned; about the gates. At least he’d had the decency to keep his shoes on and not stink up the house with the rank smell of feet.

He looked up from the book in his hands—something about ‘ _Agriculture...’_ on the cover—and looked straight at her. Clearly he knew that she was looking at him. “You wanna take a photo doll? It’ll last longer.” He chuckled, flipping the page and returning to his reading.

She gritted her teeth and swallowed back a few choice words to the back of her throat. It wasn’t the first time someone had used that line on her, but she thought it wasn’t worth even arguing about with him.

Her mum smiled though, amused by his joke.

Would he just remove his feet from the table before he left mud marks on the furniture though? She barely knew him and she already wanted him out of the house.

“Ashton, this is my daughter, Sheridan.” Her mum’s eye brightened as she ceased her dish-drying to wrap an arm around her daughter, drawing her into a half hug. Surely if he’d been there since before she arrived, her mum would have already told him everything he’d need to know about her, ever, so introductions only needed to be one-sided really.

He nodded at her mum. “I know. I remember her.” Hazel eyes darted to her and then away, to the sink of the kitchen. 

_Remember_ her? He’d known her when she was little... or younger. Well, guessing by where the Irwins’ farm was, he’d surely been around when she was little; he only looked a couple of years older than her anyway, so about... twenty five, maybe twenty six.

Sheridan’s mum turned to her daughter, still smiling at her. “You remember his dadused to drop you home after school?”

Recollection showed on her face. She nodded to her mum. “Yeah, I remember that.”

Ashton shut his book, recapturing their attention as he swung his feet off the table. “Well,” he stood, pausing. “Thanks for breakfast Mrs. Templeton, I should get back to work. I’ll be back for lunch.” He took his hat from the back of the chair, leaning to kiss Mrs. Templeton on the cheek to leave. He stopped in front of Sheridan, both of them exchanging confused looks; him unsure whether or not to repeat his gesture.

There was no way in hell though, that Sheridan was going to let that happen—and no amount of sweet talking was going to change that. Her wry look seemed to answer his unsaid question though and only passed with the tip of his hat. “See you ladies later then.” He said, heading out through the hallway, and then letting the front door swing shut behind him and bang when it hit the doorframe.

Once her mum was sure he was gone, she let go of Sheridan, but still looked at her. “He’s a gentleman don’t you think?”

Gritting her teeth, she silently disagreed with a vocabulary she’d be scolded for, and took the cloth from the sink and began wiping down the table, focusing on the spot where he’d put his feet. “Well that’s one way to put it.” She muttered.

“Oh honey,” she soother, taking the cloth off her daughter and dropping it back in the sink. “First impressions aren’t always the most important.”

Sheridan wanted to tell her mum that she had no want to make a second or third impression, but she felt that would be slim reasoning. “No, but it’s how I’ll remember him for the rest of my life.” She replied sharply.

“No need to be rude. Just give him a chance, you barely know him.” She suggested. 

“I don’t want to know him.”

“Don’t say that.” She warned, turning back to the dishes in the sink in the now-cold water.


	2. Jumbuck

_noun; Austral. informal_

_a sheep._

###

Breakfast was gracious. Sheridan could understand why her mum had waited until her second morning home for luxuries. 

The arrangement set out on the dining room table was nothing short of welcoming. Lavender and mint were bunched together in a vase in the centre of the table which was covered with a white table runner, hanging off both ends of the table. Still-hot porridge with brown sugar was set in the seat Sheridan had claimed as hers when she was four—already full of voice and opinions on matters that shouldn’t have concerned her.

But what _did_ concern her in amongst all of this relaxed state of mind was why the idiot was sitting at the table next to where her breakfast sat, eating like a dog. In its entirety it wasn’t that grotesque, disgusting was a better word for it—not to mention his ludicrous hair that was long, curly and unkept, half the Tanami Desert could have been recovered in that.

He looked up at her, sipping his coffee—her mum had been mindful enough to serve her tea—and smiled at her. She couldn’t decipher if it was sincere or otherwise, but kept to the side of caution even though he had no reason to be rude—well, in hindsight no, but adding on yesterday morning’s interaction, he might have had some right to annoyance at least. “Good morning.” Ashton maintained a flat tone, but something kept Sheridan unsure about it... maybe he was up to something.

She sat down next to him tentatively—actually she would have preferred if he was sitting on the other side of the table so that she didn’t have to strain her peripherals to keep an eye on him. “Do you always eat here?” She asked snidely without giving him the satisfaction of eye contact.

He set his empty mug down on the oak table with more force than necessary. “Only when you’re around.” He replied with an equal amount of sass. “...doll.” He added, just for good measure.

Her grip on the spoon tightened and he huffed amusedly. He’d seen how she reacted. Now he was just mocking her.

“You–”

“Oh good, you’re up.” Mrs. Templeton appeared from the kitchen—cutting off whatever chance Sheridan had of a backlash at Ashton—wiping her hands on her apron and sitting down across from Sheridan with her own cup of coffee, grabbing the newspaper that had been in front of Ashton. She didn’t even bother to ask if he’d been reading it. Sheridan doubted it though. “You’re working with Ashton today.” She put bluntly, only glancing at her before returning to the paper.

Sheridan nearly choked on her mouthful of porridge. 

Hadn’t she made it clear enough to both in company that she did not want anything to do with him? Yesterday, she was unfairly rude before brunch, and then didn’t show when he was in for lunch. Surely the signs were clear, there couldn’t be a single thing murky about them. She did not want to know Ashton. 

“What?” She coughed, trying not to let the porridge settle in the back of her throat.

“You and him are working in the sheep shed,” Mrs. Templeton nodded to Ashton who seemed to share Sheridan’s look of disdain. “We need to get the last of the sheep sheared, hopefully today.”

“But–but–but...” She stammered, trying to think up a reason excuse—anything really—to not have to work with him. Surely her mum was doing this all on purpose. Of course she knew that they hadn’t gotten along and was trying to help. It wasn’t working.

“With all due respect Mrs. Templeton,” Ashton cut in, glancing at Sheridan but rather grimly. “I don’t know your daughter all that well.”

“That’s exactly why you two will be working together; to get to know each other. Especially since you’ll be around most days until Sheridan goes home.” She explained, turning a page of the newspaper, her lips: a firm line on her face. Surely if Ashton knew her mum at all (which he seemed to) he’d know that she would have the final word regardless of what either of them thought.

He sat forward in his chair however and Sheridan briefly shut her eyes, dreading what would happen next. “Mrs. Templeton–”

“Ashton, Sheridan doesn’t know anyone around here who isn’t family.” She made a good point, to both of them. “Well, go on then. The sheep aren’t going to shear themselves.” That was her not-so-politely way of telling them to move along and start working. There was no arguing with her now. Sheridan got up from the table and Ashton followed suite.

The heat clouded around them the moment she opened the front door. Ashton let it swing shut behind him and Sheridan thought to tell him off for it, but knew that if she did, he’d just let it swing shut all the time to spite her. 

The grey tin shearing shed was about fifty metres away from the homestead, thirty by thirty metres and an oven in the summer sun. One of the double doors was already half open when they reached the building. It was then that she stopped to follow Ashton. Sheridan’s knowledge about sheep shearing was rather limited.

“So Sheridan,” he began, stepping passed her into the already sweltering shed. She noted that it was the first time he’d used her name. He headed to the back doors, opening them up to a partly shadowed area where the thirty sheep still needing to be sheared were huddled in the shade. “You’re a Melbourne gal?” 

She rose an eyebrow at how casual he was trying to be. “If you already know, why are you asking?” Without a doubt her mum had already told him all of this, if not more than she was comfortable telling him herself.

He shrugged, grabbing a set of clippers which had been hung from the wall and gestured for her to follow him over. “Just trying to make conversation. Or be polite; you know, that thing that you’re not great at.” His attempt at a joke was lost when she scowled at him, but he was more than happy to just know that he had her attention. 

Ashton shook his head at her and plugged the clippers into the powerpoint above the shearing dock and rolled his eyes to himself.

She watched closely as he glanced over the condition of the blades before setting it to the side of the shearing dock, on the ledge of the wall. The last time Sheridan had seen a sheep shorn was when she was last here; at home. She was only about five, but her dad had used nonelectric shearers—he told her that they were the ones that weave the most magic. She hadn’t realised what he’d meant back then, but she now understood that it was about money; manual shearing was higher quality than this, but here there were more sheep, so quality obviously didn’t matter as much. 

“What did you do for fun in Melbourne?”

Chewing on her bottom lip, Sheridan had to pause on a moment of forgetfulness—which she blamed on crossing over a time zone that didn’t even make sense. “I played tennis.” She recalled and then shook her head at herself. It had been some time since she’d done that.

He laughed and rose his eyebrows at her. “This is a little bit different from playing tennis.” He ducked himself through the fencing and stepped into the sunlight. “Watch and learn.” Ashton ran straight towards the flock and dove for the nearest sheep. He wrangled the struggling animal much to her surprise, picking it up and hauling it over his shoulders as it calmed down. Turning back to the shearing shed, the sun obscured a lot of his vision until he stepped back into the shade.

Ashton grinned at her rather cockily and she didn’t hesitate to roll her eyes back at him considering her mum wasn’t around to scold her for it. “Easy right?”

Sheridan laughed bitterly at him. “You make it _look_ easy.” She corrected, following him back to the shearing dock. He grasped the clippers after lugging the sheep off his shoulders, holding it still between his legs and with his free hand. Carefully he started with the bottom half of the sheep, shearing downwards and removing nearly all the wool on its underside and half the back while the sheep was on its back. Flipping it over in a motion that looked too simple to be that easy he head-locked the sheep between his knees and working in upwards strokes around its neck he maintained a clean cut around the animal without second-guessing any of his actions.

Ashton released his grip on the sheep as he tugged off the last of the wool coat, pushing the sheep in the direction of a different pen, separate from the others. His stare then fell on her, projecting an expectant look. “Okay, your turn.”

“Ashton, I-I...” She stuttered and fell over her words, eyes wide with anticipation but not surprise. “I can’t do that.”

“Sheridan I’m not giving you a choice here.” He nodded his head towards the paddock where the sheep had re-huddled in the shade. 

Huffing, she shrugged off his stare on her, and ducked through the fencing into the paddock.

“Just run for them.” He instructed simply.

More than anything she didn’t want to miss. Maybe if he’d fumbled when he’d caught his and let it go she wouldn’t have felt so much pressure to get it right the first try. But no, he had to show her up—get it right or don’t; as simple as that.

“Run.” He repeated.

“I’m going all right?” She snapped back at him without turning away from the sheep. _Run_. One foot was in front of the other and the sheep were hurrying in all directions except towards her before Sheridan could even process how to do this right. She scampered after them, the sunlight warm on her shoulders and the shirt her mum had left out for her providing little resistance to the progressive heat of the day. Reaching out, she missed falling into sheep shit. Instead she landed in the dust.

Behind her Ashton was laughing as if he’d never seen anything funnier. “When I thought you were going to make a fool of yourself, I didn’t think it would be that hilarious.” He laughed.

“Shut up.” She muttered, dusting herself off, but the red dirt clung to the pale blue button-up like a life source. Sheridan knew better than to let him get the better of her, but that didn’t stop her from biting her tongue until the familiar metallic tinge flooded her mouth. Gritting her teeth, she turned to the now spread-out sheep and decided to keep close to the shed; where most of them were covered anyway.

There wasn’t much strategy to doing this, but herding sheep did have a basic principle; walk behind the sheep and it moves forward, and on the flip side if it’s walked in front of it moves backward. 

Four tries later and no luck, Ashton climbed back into the paddock, grabbing the sheep she’d been eyeing off without a thought to how difficult it actually was—much to Sheridan’s insistence that he put it back so she could catch it—and hauled it into the shearing dock. He then proceeded to talk her through his demonstration—while she objected to the conversation she did appreciate it—and then he helped finish it because he thought she was taking too long about it.

At the end of it all he’d only let her catch and shear six of the thirty one sheep left to be done, but she didn’t argue about it as much as he thought she might.

“So that what you do for fun?” She asked at lunchtime. They’d both headed back to the homestead, it was boiling in the sun and the heat haze was radiating from the dust as they walked.

Ashton shook his head, a smug look imprinted on his face as he ran a hand through his unmanageable hair. “Oh no, you have no idea.”

“Tell me then.” Sheridan suggested pleasantly as she pushed the front door open and headed into the dining room. 

Mrs. Templeton was busy cleaning the silverware and preparing dinner at the same time from what they could see. But she frowned when the two walked into the house. “Go and clean up. I’ve set out some left overs for lunch. That’ll have to suffice.” She said and ushered them into the bathroom.

His lopsided smile still stuck. “You don’t know the half of _fun_ , Sheridan. Not yet anyway.”

###

“Please be on your best behaviour.” Mrs. Templeton warned as she saw the Irwins’ car pull up out the front of the house.

Sheridan didn’t reply, mentally replaying what she thought was going to be spoken about during dinner: sheep shearing (bad choice of topic because she was bad at it and Ashton was surely going to rub her face in it), Melbourne (why she was there, why she was back, how long she was staying, what she wanted to do once she’d finished up her education; a. k. a. all things she wasn’t interested in answering), all while she deliberated how long she could hold her tongue before saying something mean. 

All he’d done through lunch was chat to her mum about how out of tune Sheridan was and how she should be here more often so that she had a good hand at things and could make herself useful—she wanted to throttle him at that remark—and that she wasn’t the best at wrangling sheep, but far from the worst—she wasn’t sure what to do with that observation.

Her jaw involuntarily clenched when her mum opened the door to them. The three of them were greeted with hugs from her mum who then escorted them into the parlour where pleasantries were exchanged between them and her dad.

That was Sheridan’s queue to bring in the tea. Followed by the gaping from his parents, she set the tray on the table. “You’ve grown up so much.” “You aren’t a little girl anymore.” “You’re taller.” “You are your father’s daughter.” “Aren’t you proud Celia?” “Yes, you have your mother’s eyes though.” It went on and on.

But beyond all of the preening from Mr. and Mrs. Irwin, she saw without a hint of doubt that Ashton was enjoying this. The smug bastard was having a good time _because_ she was annoyed.

She clucked her tongue. It was going to be a long night.

Sheridan answered all the appropriate questions with equally appropriate answers, smiled when she had to, avoided Ashton when necessary—that incident where they both tried to move the chair back for her mum—and tried to have a good time. 

So maybe they laughed at her when she explained that she was studying interior design. They might have thought it best if she stayed here, learn the farm life. It was also possible that they might have mocked her when Ashton brought up the topic of sheep shearing. Sheridan _tried_ to have a good time, _tried_.

“Well what _has_ she done while she’s been here?” Mr. Irwin asked shortly after Sheridan had refilled his glass of white wine again. He was a nice enough man, a rough voice with a relatively square shape to everything he did and was; his stature was square, his walk was square, his smile even maintained the characteristic of _square_. 

“Well she only flew in yesterday: she helped around the house and we caught up and then her and Ashton sheared the last of the sheep today.” Mrs. Templeton explained.

Mrs. Irwin spoke up, wine glass still mostly full with her first helping but she clutched it close giving the impression that she was heartily engaged with it. “Well I think that while you’re here you should go horse riding.” She suggested, regarding Sheridan with a soft smile—hazy, a hazy smile. Like Ashton’s.

A gruff, ridiculing laugh sounded from Mr. Templeton. “Sheridan hasn’t ridden a horse for more than a decade.” It was true, but she knew how to. “Besides, it’s not safe to go wandering around out here alone, in the middle of the day... in the heat. It’s not good for you.” He decided with a nod of his head. 

That was met with dissent.

Amongst all the disagreement, Sheridan sat quietly surprised, sipping at her wine, not prepared to take part in the argument taking place.

“I’ll go with her then.” Ashton silenced the table, his eyes flickering to hers for a moment before back to everyone else around the table. She wasn’t sure what authority he had to sit at the head of the table opposite her father at the other end. It surprised her more that Mr. Irwin wasn’t sitting at the head of the table, rather, his son was. “I know the land, I’ve been riding horses since before I could drive, and I’m sensible about the heat.”

Sheridan grimaced at the idea of being stuck in the heavy sun away from everything with him, and took another sip of wine. It was a conflicting situation. She didn’t like Ashton, but she wanted to go horse riding and that currently seemed to be the only exception to letting her go. Well, at least her dad appeared to be contemplating it.

Mr. Templeton cleared his throat, looking at Sheridan for a good moment. He knew she was an adult, and he had to view her as one, not just his little girl. She was sensible and agreeable and made good conversation. There wasn’t anything wrong with what Ashton was suggesting per-say—his stare fell on the boy in front of him. More of a man, actually. He’d grown up a lot since he’d started working at the Waltzing Matilda Homestead. Ashton was headstrong and independent. “Well seeing as there’s no alternative that I’m willing to accept: all right. But you take care of my daughter, she’s my only child and I’m not willing to let anything happen to her because of some stupid decision you make.”

Ashton nodded and there was silence at the table. “Yes sir.”

Sheridan felt that she hadn’t really had a say in anything that had been decided, but at the same time it felt like her first breath of freedom since she’d arrived with the exception that she was going to have to be _supervised_ by the person she wanted to see least. It was a real mix of everything in all.

Conversation about Melbourne was light after that, but continued.

Once everyone had set their cutlery together, there was a real pause, as if everyone was digesting not only their meal but the conversation. Sheridan did have a lot to say—she hadn’t been home for five years.

“Dinner was immaculate Mrs. Templeton.” Ashton applauded.

“Thank you Ashton.” She smiled at him, but only until he began reaching over and collecting the plates which was met with disapproving looks. He simply brushed it off until he had the six plates stacked in front of him; he excused himself to the kitchen while Sheridan grabbed the empty wine glasses—not Mrs. Irwin’s—and followed after him, not with any intention of conversation.

“Mm, yes Celia it was divine as always.” Mrs. Irwin agreed, sipping at her still half-full glass of wine.

“You’re welcome any time Loretta.” She sighed relaxed, knowing that the dishes were taken care of and she could take a moment where she wasn’t doing anything. 

In the kitchen neither of them wanted to speak first—which surprised Sheridan, because she felt sure he had some sarcastic comment he was just waiting, waiting, _waiting_ to deliver. But he didn’t. She shouldn’t have been disappointed, really, but maybe it was just because she was expecting it. Either way it was exhausting with their reticent but they washed and dried the dishes wordlessly.

By the end of the night, she just wanted to break their silence treaty with a joke, an innuendo, an observation, an _anything_. It was just plain awkward.


End file.
